


Dark Waters

by TheGnerdyGoblin



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood and Torture, Caning, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGnerdyGoblin/pseuds/TheGnerdyGoblin
Summary: There's blood on the water when the Dark Brotherhood is called upon to take the head of a notorious pirate, though they soon find the tides turned on their own lives instead...Oddvar and his bloody fool quickly learn how fast a storm can manifest on the ocean.
Relationships: Cicero/Listener (Elder Scrolls)
Kudos: 3





	Dark Waters

**Author's Note:**

> [A/N: This is not related to Dark Brotherhood: Awake. (Not available on AO3 -er, now it is-, but DA and FF) I had a pirate-y dream and decided to write it down in a new story with different elements and things I can toy and practice with when feeling burnt out, if I decide to even continue it that is. I'm also working on certain requests here and there so, who knows where my attentions will be.]

Jeleen the Mace.

A Redguard woman born of sand but master of sea.

A notorious pirate, known to revel in plunder and pillage.

It was not just gold and jewels she found a reward, but the very many and merciless ways of which to take them. 

It would come as no surprise someone wanted her dead. Lots of someones wanted her dead. 

But one someone in particular especially wanted her dead. 

A vendetta so fierce they preformed the Black Sacrament, calling upon malevolent dark forces to end this malevolent dark force. 

A strong statement for a mourning villager robbed of their home, their village, their family….a simple request for the Dark Brotherhood. 

Or so they thought. 

Complacency.

It was much like a raggedy tarp on a roof.

Always does its job well, providing shade from the sun. Never fails in this.  
Until the rain comes. 

That humbling cloud hung over the Brotherhood's Listener; crimson drops falling upon his face, as the storm whispered its wind and rain on that raggedy tarp.

The storm being Jeleen, the whisper being her namesake mace, the tarp the Brotherhood's once lively and eager Clover—a Bosmer girl hardly a step above her teen years.  
Ambitious and excitable. A go getter with a deadly accuracy of bow and dagger. Promising and always delivers.  
Her talent in sending wayward souls to Sithis was only topped by her musical aptitude. 

She was a delight to have in a dark Sanctuary.

A year as of today, she has called that Sanctuary home.

But now…

She may never provide a gaily tune for the shadowy reside again. 

The Listener, Oddvar, a brutish –but fetching—Nord man, peered his intense cornflower blue eyes through the pecan brown hair that clung wet to his hardened face. 

His hair sticky and wet with the blood of Clover. 

His gaze could do nothing but look at her as he stood spellbound to his knees, unable to do anything but stare above. 

She was strung up above him from the boom of the main mast.

Her arms tightly trapped against her body as her feet were bound by rope and held her upside down. 

She swayed and rocked with the ship, like a chandelier roped to a rafter, but the fire light of this lamp was all but snuffed out. 

The young Bosmer's honey eyes quivered and rolled; the once exuberant life inside them dimming with every struggled blink. 

Her red sand hair, dark and crimson and wet with the blood that drained from her.

Her once caramel skin, pale and grey.

Just merely an hour ago, she was as eager as she ever was, elated in bubbly tune with the gift of the kill Oddvar had welcomed her along for— an anniversary present for her rebirth as a child of Sithis. 

Oddvar knew Jeleen was a high contract, but Clover had proven herself from the first day to be a capable ender of lives, even of other professional life-enders. And she so dreamily wanted to board a pirate ship—she was convinced they were filled with grotesque amputees, swearing birds, and swarthy men, like the high seas adventure novels she divulged in when she would actually sit down. 

While Jeleen was swarthy, and missing various pieces of body, the only thing this ship was filled with was the Brotherhood's confidence being smashed. Literally.

Jeleen, as she stood on the railing overlooking the main deck from the quarter deck, swung her large mace again, connecting it with Clover's hip.  
Despite the give of being strung up like a freshly caught fish, the sickening sound of multiple bones popping from their sockets was clear.

The mace, while it had spikes, they were wide and blunt. It's entirety was jet black, save for a small fissure near its top that glowed a dim green, almost oozed. It was bewitched—or possibly Daedric. 

But even if it wasn't, it was clearly optimal at bludgeoning. 

The Wood Elf could no longer make a scream of agony, having been quite acquainted to this mace by now, but a raspy, wheezing groan heaved from her. 

Her body swung far away from that horrible thwack to her hip, and she was halted on the swing back by a harsh jab of the mace to her gut.

An explosive vomit of blood erupted from Clover and onto Oddvar, and all he could do was watch the red cascade befall him. 

A fuzzy memory of the girl flashed his mind.

Of she expelling the contents of his signature, and highly alcoholic, concoction upon him after a dare to down it in a swig. 

He was never fond of that memory.

How she and Cicero laughed and laughed…and laughed at his expense, regardless of it being she who failed her confidant bet.

Cicero.

He had come along with them as well, despite his aversion to ships and their gut sloshing sway.

The last he saw of the jester was he being lifelessly dragged below deck by Jeleen’s brutishly Orc bosun.

Oddvar’s clown had been happy upon their boarding to occupy himself on the quarter deck above the captain's cabin, cut throating all the cutthroats and staying near a rail should the swaying sour his stomach, while Clover made a straight cut to the captain's room. 

When the chaos erupted after Clover had kicked opened the cabin's door and was met with the rib cracking mace, Cicero had quickly leapt from above onto Jeleen herself when she stepped from her door.

He had immediately gone to sink his dagger in her neck, but she had swung up with her mace and conked him on the side of the head, instantly knocking him unconscious—or worse. 

The ambush of crew surged immediately after, overwhelming Oddvar and Clover, though Oddvar couldn't remember the exact moment he was downed. 

It was fuzzy and blurred. 

He remembered his face to the floorboard as he watched the bosun drag Cicero away, and hazily remembered watching Clover be strung up, but that was it.

Oddvar wasn't sure of just how much time elapsed either, other than the sun being far gone from the dusk they had entered the ship by. 

But even now, he felt eternally paralyzed in this position, watching his young friend’s life be bludgeoned short. 

Jeleen seemed to be savoring it as long as she could.

She hummed a jaunty tune as she swung her mace, much like she was taking her time beating dust from a rug. 

In all honesty, the pirate’s blissful attitude towards this continuous torture would have probably fit well with the depravity of their family, but she was marked for death….even if she was smudging the mark on them. 

Oddvar had not expected her to be anything more than a notorious sea dog.

The rumors and tales of her seemed typical of little feet clomping around in big boots, but looking at her, perhaps those boots were actually too tight. 

Or boot.

Like a true storybook pirate, the woman had chapters of her adventures on full display. 

Her red-brown skin scar worn, but flashy with wear of various jewelry and artifacts of her travels and triumphs. 

The bandana that held her dreadlock hair up, appeared to be a bloodied and tattered kerchief of the Imperial Navy. 

Her style of dress showed she had no fear of exposing her skin to elements, or arrows, or blades, even though she has most certainly felt the consequences of any or all of those.

Her left leg was gone from the knee, but a mysteriously mechanical prosthetic was in place. Her right hand: the thumb, index and middle finger shared that same odd prosthetic, as well as part of her wrist. 

The most eye catching part of her, was literally her eye.

Her right eye. It was not an eye. 

Most certainly not a natural one anyway.

The brow ridge and cheekbone around it was encased in the same metal of her prosthetics; the eye looked nearly identical to a small scale centurion dynamo core. A dim red glow at the core's center, flickering in and out. 

She turned her head towards Oddvar, her natural eye, with its richly brown iris, looking to him as if taunting him to speak. 

He couldn't. He couldn't even blink.

She knew that of course, and with a smug grin, she slung her mace into Clover's gut once more, producing more blood in a heave and into Oddvar's unblinking eyes. 

The pirate battered the young Bosmer a few more times, before setting her eye back on Oddvar.

“Have you learned your lesson?” she asked of him, her inflection was peppy but her voice was contralto and weighty.

Again, Oddvar could not reply, but it was obvious she was playing upon this. 

“No?” Jeleen's wicked grin stretched further, “Must I keep flogging this poor dear until I hear an apology?”

She held her mace at ready and waited as if she was actually waiting upon his answer. 

When he of course couldn't speak, whether it be apology or curse, she gave a blow of a laugh and wounded up to strike.

She paused again when Clover suddenly convulsed a bit and made a strangled noise to speak. 

Jeleen unwound the swing and turned the Wood Elf's face towards her, gently, with the mace.

“Oh no, dear,” the pirate said, “I don't expect you to answer. I know you're a little tied up right now--"

Clover had wrangled up enough focus and strength to spit a small sputter of spit and blood onto the pirates face.

Jeleen closed her eye, smiling, though her core eye lingered on Clover, the glow intensifying from dim to noticeable.

The core then shifted its ‘gaze' onto to Oddvar as Jeleen opened her natural eye and chuckled. 

“Rude,” she commented, “….I have half a mind to…well, give you half a mind.” 

She slammed down the top of her mace on the rail, using it as a stand to sling herself up like an acrobat.

In an almost blink and miss it move, which Oddvar could not do, Jeleen swung a kick at the suspending rope with her mechanical leg. 

The rope snapped, as Oddvar swore the false leg shifted a razor sharp edge out from its ‘shin'. 

Clover fell hard onto the deck below, nearly on top of Oddvar. 

Jeleen landed down as well, mace in hand and on her feet like a graceful cat. She then grabbed hold of the severed rope at Clover’s feet and dragged her further away from Oddvar. 

Oddvar couldn't see anyone in his field of vision now, but he soon heard the dragging stop and the thump of Jeleen dropping Clover's feet. 

Suddenly, his body lurched forward as he was released from his paralysis.

He gasped as he caught himself on his hands and spun around, only to be frozen in paralysis once again as soon as he turned. 

He was looking straight at Jeleen who stood over Clover; the pirate tauntingly resting her mace on Clover's head. 

“Headstrong, eh?” Jeleen spoke and looked to Oddvar with that smug and wicked grin.

Oddvar knew exactly what she was about to do, and he could do nothing about it. 

Jeleen lifted her mace up….and then brought it down hard.  
The Bosmer tried with whatever strength had been left in her to turn her eyes defiantly at the woman, but Oddvar could see the tears escaping them just before the mace burst into her skull. 

Oddvar felt his stomach tighten in an icy grip, even through the paralysis. 

Jeleen’s gaze shifted to him and the core eye’s glow flickered in intensity, but it was her natural eye that seemed to tell all. 

She could see his despair, even in his paralysis.  
The dread for his comrade as the Bosmer convulsed in spasmodic death throws. 

Jeleen kept her eyes and malicious grin on him as she raised her mace again, and brought it back down. 

A sickening squelch as she repeated it once more and again, until Clover's twitching stopped. 

“Consider yourself lucky,” the pirate had begun to say to Oddvar, but a brief and deafening numb washed over him.

Cicero’s nickname for Clover had always been Lucky—not due to her fortune of luck, but because there was no way she could be named Clover and he not say it.

The jester had been fond of her.

Not in lust, but like a teacher of their student.  
He had often referred to her as his protégé, due to their enjoyment of similar antics, merriment and unnecessary jokes—all of which the girl had seemed to admire his superior penchant for.  
They pieced together like a little sister finding the big brother she never had, but always wanted.

And Oddvar had cared for her, too. And his fool. 

They weren't ignorant to the risks of their occupation, even if a bit overconfident.

Death spared no one, risks or no. 

And while, yes, death was actively avoided, it wasn't directly death that was the risk for souls such as them.

No matter how many lives they took themselves or how reclused they remained in their Sanctuary,…it was still the living's nature to come together. To form unities, trusts, and purpose.  
They were no exception.  
Huddled together in that dark place.  
It was inevitable.

Oddvar cared for her. 

Coldblooded as he may be, himself, he wasn't incapable of caring and love. 

And when a coldblooded assassin cared for someone, they'd do anything to protect…or avenge them. 

The deafening numb turned to a roar of his thoughts raging through his mind, as he envisioned all the grisly things he would do to Jeleen--paralysis be damned. 

Rip off her remaining limbs piece by piece. Any extremities. Gouge out her eye. Make her eat that eye with gnashing gums, after he mercilessly yanked out those tar stained teeth.

Oddvar was so now paralyzed in thought, he didn't register anything Jeleen had been saying. 

His focus didn't return until he saw…

Cicero. 

He was alive and on his feet, but he was beaten and bound. An eye blackened, nose bloodied, cheek swollen, jaw bruised, lips busted—no. His lips…..

They were sewn shut. 

Sewn tightly shut with fisherman's twine.

What in Oblivion have they done to him?

The bosun tugged and guided Cicero by the arm towards Jeleen. 

The jester's hands were tightly bound together and he limped terribly, as if he could hardly put weight on either foot. 

And he probably couldn't. 

They have probably beaten every inch of him. 

The bosun released Cicero to Jeleen, who took him and forced him to his knees by Clover’s head—what was left of it, anyway.

Oddvar saw Cicero's out-of-sorts gaze focus on the pile of mush and body before him. 

The jester's brows furrowed, then, for a moment, twisted up in sadness as his breathing distressed. 

The whimper that muffled through his sewn mouth twisted Oddvar's gut. The poor Fool of Hearts. 

But the fool’s despair quickly turned to that dangerous glare; that dagger in the night glare. 

The fool turned it to Jeleen, who took it in with her smirk. 

She tsked at him. 

“Don't look at me with that tone,” she said, “…You already know what it gets a filthy mouth…”

Oddvar was very certain the muffled noise that came from the clown was he calling her a “Bilge Rat Bitch". 

He knew his fool.

Jeleen had come to know him too, as she had no issue deciphering the noise and lashed the man on his back with the handle of her mace. 

He fell forward and caught himself on his bound hands, but unfortunately braced himself on the remains of his friend's head.

He growled and went to shove himself back up, probably to try Gods know what towards Jeleen in his anger, but he slipped upon his shove on the bloody mess of his friend and collapsed on top of her.

Jeleen chuckled and jabbed the end of the mace harshly on his back as she tsked again. 

Oddvar so desperately wanted to run that mace through her with momentous force. 

Cicero couldn't even yelp properly due to his mouth being wound shut, instead giving a throaty, groaning growl. 

As he lifted his head, his eyes finally met with the petrified Oddvar’s.

The Nord heard him muffle his name within his closed mouth; or more likely, he muffled “Oddball", as he always called him—if not Listener. 

The jester had nearly jolted up again, but Jeleen kept him pinned in his position. 

She looked to Oddvar and spoke of Cicero.

“He's certainly a funny guy,” she said, “I like him. I really do….But, dear Tava, does he get mean. …Quite a foul mouth, this one.”

Oddvar suddenly felt the paralysis lift from him again, but just as his body began to move forward, a rough hand snatch his hair and a blade pressed his neck. 

The Orc bosun. 

Oddvar restrained his urge to let loose the foul on his tongue.

“Let him go,” he said to Jeleen, “.....Bash my head in, huh? But let him go. Let him tell our people what you've done; what you're capable of…”

“And who are your people?” Jeleen responded, “Tightlip here,…heh, well, he did do a loooot of talking. ....And I figured he'd ramble off various lies, but he stuck to one. Dark Brotherhood.” 

“Not a lie,” Oddvar corrected.

“The Brotherhood burned in Bravil,” Jeleen said, “…..Pick the next best thing you think will intimidate me--AND, don't say dental hygiene. It's tar.”

“It's no lie,” Oddvar insisted, “…A contract was put on your head.”

Jeleen closed her eye with a smile, but shook her head. 

“A bounty is put on my head everyday—Wait!,” she said and suddenly seemed to recall something, “Ooh! Are you the port bastards from Dock Brotherhood? Did they send you? Was I hearing you wrong?” 

Oddvar couldn't tell if she was serious or not, and Cicero even seemed he wanted to laugh, but Jeleen's raised brow indicated she was awaiting Oddvar's confirmation. 

“Um…No,” Oddvar replied, “We are the Dark Brotherhood. Dark. Brotherhood. D-a-r-k—apologies, can you spell?” 

Jeleen chuckled. 

“Careful,” she warned, lifting her mace from Cicero's back, but yanking him up by cap and hair, “…..You see what being mean gets you.” 

Oddvar held his glare to her, but refrained from saying anything further. Not for fear of her doing to him what was done to Cicero, but because he knew she wouldn't do anything to him. She would further torture Oddvar's fool for it. He knew her type. 

“So,” Jeleen spoke again, still roughly clutching Cicero by his head, “….Who are you?”

Oddvar gritted his teeth and began to reply again, “Dar--"

“Keep in mind,” Jeleen cut him off, “….If you insist on lies, it will cost your friend here an arm or leg….And I'm sure you know by now I mean that in its most literal sense.”

Oddvar remained silent for the moment, growing increasingly infuriated and exasperated.

He opened his mouth, debating on feeding her a lie as she was so adamant on not believing what he said, but what good would the lie do? What actions would a satisfactory answer bring?

Oddvar admittedly was feeling desperation. 

He tried to think of something to say besides insult or Dark Brotherhood.

Jeleen; however, decided to amp up the pressure. 

She yanked Cicero along with her towards a barrel nearby.

With a nod and whistle, Jeleen beckoned over a daunting Altmer fellow. 

His attire, from his collar to his boots, clean and black and demanding attention to his authority. 

His long silver hair neatly tied back and his facial hair groomed to symmetrical perfection. 

His golden skin worn with experiences exceeding the life of any typical human and his golden eyes as piercing as a hawk spotting prey. 

The very air of him all but revealed that he was the ship's provost, and Jeleen's right hand.

And with a grin as wicked as Jeleen's, he took ahold of Cicero's ankle and propped his leg atop the barrel. 

Jeleen released her hold of Cicero into another crewmate's grasp as she stood to the side and brought her mace over the clown's shin.

“D-don't!” Oddvar shouted, nearly pushing his neck into the bosun’s blade as he reactively went to rush them, “…Don't!”

Jeleen shot that damn grin at him before lifting the mace and bringing it down….

Cicero's muffled agonized cry sent Oddvar into a rage.  
He slung his elbow into the bosun's groin, the Orc releasing him, and he scrambled to pounce Jeleen.

The Nord suddenly found himself hitting the deck in paralysis yet again. 

Jeleen's chuckle intermingling with Cicero's pained whimpers made him pray to any and all Gods that would have favor on him to give him the will to break this spell. He was going to tear that bitch's flesh from her very bone. 

Jeleen's tar stained teeth bared their smile at him as she had kicked him over and stared down at him. 

“…..That wasn't very nice to Gardulg,” she tsked, referring the bosun, “……Should I swing for the juggling balls next as punishment?”

She knelt down to Oddvar, propping an elbow on her knee and chin in hand. 

“Listen,” she said, as if it was all no real matter, “.…..I like the guy. I want to prop him up on my shoulder and have him squawk out his jokes all day….But you like him more…So, here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell me who you are….And then I'll let you both go. It's that simple. Really. I mean it…..Of course, what I'll do with the information….Eh. I get your hesitancy…..”

She stood and nodded to the bosun who had come and took ahold of the Nord again as the paralysis lifted. 

Oddvar fought every fiber in his being not to rush at the bitch again. 

Jeleen stood back where she had been, holding the mace over Cicero's leg. 

Cicero had brought himself back into focus again, though he most certainly look even further worn.  
But he seemed to be staring hard at that mace. Not in trepidation, but almost like in recognition. 

Jeleen seemed to notice, but then looked to Oddvar. 

“You see my leg?” she said, “My metal one, of course….You see, I know the feel of this mace well. To have a limb bludgeoned off…..It's a torment I can even scarcely describe. Bones shattered to thousands of splinters, muscle and tendon beaten to mush….A quick clean cut is bliss……To go through it once….”

Her brow furrowed as she stared at the weapon, the core eye dimming greatly.

Oddvar swore he saw her lip quiver for the slightest of a moment, but she gave a quick shake of her head and smiled .

“…..To go through it twice. Thrice. A hundred times until you feel your friend has paid leg enough for your lies,” she warned, “…Aerin?”

The Altmer nodded and gave Oddvar that grin he was so damn done with.

He waved a hand over Cicero's leg, a glow wrapping around and setting in. 

He must have healed the bone, but it was only for Jeleen to start the torment anew. 

She raised her mace and spoke to Oddvar, “…Who are you?” 

The Nord didn't want to hesitate, but had no time to wrack his brain with a suitable answer.

“Dark Brotherhood!” he exclaimed in exasperation.

Cicero's muffled scream was returned as the mace snapped his bone once again. 

“Gods damn it! DARK BROTHERHOOD!” Oddvar shouted, his neck pressing into the bosun's blade. 

The mace swung down again upon the broken bone. 

“DARK BROTHERHOOD!!” Oddvar roared. 

Again the mace was swung, the barrel cracking a bit under the impact.

“DARK BROTHERHOOD, YOU BRINEY STRUMPET! YOU CLAM CAVERN CUNT!”

Jeleen paused. Her gaze turning to him enough to see the menacing glow of her core eye.

Cicero, despite his immense pain and agonized moans, managed a muffled laugh in between.

Jeleen stood hesitant for another moment before she shook her head with a disappointed sigh.

She suddenly yanked Cicero from the low hand’s grasp and roughly tossed the jester over the barrel; his muffled laughter winded from him as his belly hit the top.

Jeleen pinned him there as she threatened the mace over the back of his head.

“Well look at this. Over a barrel, eh?” she said, “Already had ya there, but suppose you lot work very literally….”

She raised the mace in the air.

“STOP!” Oddvar shouted, his rage turning to pleas, “D-DON'T! PLEASE!” 

“It'll be one good swing,” Jeleen replied, ‘I like him, after all….”

She stood hesitant once more and finally said, “….I'll be stubbornly forgiving and allow you one. more. chance……”

Her core eye burned with malice as she awaited Oddvar's answer, her mace inching up little by little. 

Oddvar's jaw quivered with hesitation. He had to say something. Something other than the damn truth. 

His hesitation; however, was answer enough.

Jeleen blew out another disappointed sigh and swung back the mace for the fatal swing….

But paused once again.

She turned her gaze out to sea; something had caught her eye.

Her smile dropped, and the intense flicker of her core eye dimmed greatly.

She almost looked like a child caught raiding a pantry before dinner. 

She scrunched her nose for but a moment, but her smiled returned and she chuckled.

“Oh! Well, look here. I forgot Mum was paying a visit,” she said as she lightly thunked her own head and then broadly gestured out to sea, “Dear, oh dear. Seems I'm not the only…scatterbrain… today.”

She had waved her mace towards the deceased Clover as she said that, invoking hardened glares from the dead girl's comrades. 

“Oh come on,” the pirate grinned and patted Cicero on the back, “……Should I be the one wearing that funny suit?”

The jester rolled his eyes and put his focus on the deck, not even wanting to give her the satisfaction of his attention to her remarks.

Jeleen stepped away from him, but nodded to the Altmer who resumed a grip on the clown.

The provost took it upon himself to continue the jester's pains as Jeleen stepped to the ship's side.

The Altmer had at some point obtained a long cane and begun lashing Cicero harshly over his back with it, sadistically grinning towards Oddvar as the Nord helplessly watched.

The poor fool couldn't stifle the muffled yelps and growls as the Altmer relentlessly carried on, even striking his thighs to provoke shakes in his legs.  
The horrid pain and the shaking only serving to worsen the agony of the broken bones.

The piercing hawk-like eyes of the torturer watched Oddvar's every reaction with silent glee. 

The Nord wanted to push right through the bosun's blade upon his neck, whether it sliced right through or not, and rip that Altmer's jugular out.

Though Cicero probably would suggest ripping the man's tongue out instead and giving him a dose of a whipping with it. 

Purely so he could say tongue-lashing, Oddvar knew. 

Gods, but he didn't know if they were getting out of this alive. 

He held his own piercing glare on the Altmer, willing any inept magic he may have unknowingly had to boil that man's own eyes in his skull. 

But nothing happened aside the continual beating of his fool; the jester's attempts to conceal the increasing whimpers rapidly dwindling, especially upon the shakes of his broken leg. 

Oddvar was just about to risk it all again and break free of the bosun, perhaps take his blade this time, and disembowel the Altmer…..But the massive ship now sailing along side Jeleen's caught his eye. 

The thing looked positively foul. Tainted with otherworldly, and dark, forces. 

To see a relatively respectable looking Nord woman cross the docking plank was a surprise. 

She stood authoritatively before Jeleen. Tall and proud and finely aged. 

Clean for a Nord, but obviously experienced many ways.

Her ash blonde hair well groomed into a short cut, the longest length of which seemed to frame on the right front of her face, but as of right now, was neatly tucked behind her ear. 

Her silver-blue eyes were noticeable even from Oddvar's distance, as if they demanded attention from any and all in their field of vision. 

Her pale skin bordered on sickly, if it was not for its beautiful snowy gleam—at least that's how most Nords would see it. 

She wore clean plate armor, its shining silver reflecting the moonlight and contrasting with the foulness of the ship from which she had stepped from.  
But the shine of her armor was the only flashy attire about her.  
She did not wear even one spoil of plunder or dazzling jewel anywhere on her body. 

The only thing about her person that shared with Jeleen was a prosthetic left arm, exactly of the same materials that comprised Jeleen's false limbs. 

The Nord woman and Jeleen greeted each other in warmth it seemed, but Oddvar couldn't make out what was said, briefly drawing his attention back to his pained fool and the increasing cries trapped behind sewn lips. 

The jester had placed his bound hands atop his cap and had drawn it over most of his face.  
Oddvar felt the fury, the absolute rage renewing within him. He felt the bosun's grip tighten on his hair and the blade press further in his neck…The Nord man must have been visibly readying to unleash his wrath—the bosun ready to end it should he try that groin shot again.

But the Altmer finally stopped tormenting the cane upon the fool's back, straightening his stance and looking expectantly ahead.

Jeleen and the Nord woman had approached.

“Busy night, I see,” the Nord casually remarked to the Altmer, “….Don't wear that arm too much, dear Aerin. Save it for swigging. I brought you a wonderful bounty of Gold Wine of the Coast.”

The Altmer's grin widened.

“Wonderful indeed,” he replied.

The Nord woman turned her icy gaze onto Oddvar's.

It seemed she did also share that same bastard grin as Jeleen.

Oddvar felt his nose twitch as it threatened to inch up into a snarl.

The Nord woman, unbothered, turned her gaze onto Cicero as he pushed up his cap and turned his glare towards her.

But then…

A bewildered widening of his eyes upon her. 

If not for the Altmer's firm grip on him, he would have rose up in his attempt to look upon her better. 

The Nord woman, too, suddenly gave a strange look to him. 

She leaned down a bit, observing his battered face more closely, but it was when the jester muffled a name that solidified her recognition. 

“Cicero? ….By Sithis, it IS you,” the woman said. 

She quickly pulled a dagger from her hip, everyone a bit taken from the two's recognition of each other to react, but she only cut through the fisherman twine that held his mouth sewn.

Once the jester could open his mouth enough to speak, he restated her name.

“Einar? ..E-Einar Ingur?” he said, “Wh-..You're….”

He then suddenly turned his attention, and anger, towards the Altmer.

“You as hard as that wood yet, honeyskin? Enjoyed it?” he taunted, “Haven't taken a whipping like that since I busted my Nan's urn in the fireplace.…Gamps had a limp wrist too, the poor arthritic basta—AAGH!!”

The Altmer had struck him directly on the broken bone of his leg that time.

The Nord woman held up her prosthetic hand, halting the Altmer before he could resume another strike.

She took Cicero's chin in her other hand and directed his attention back to her, waiting as he wound down from the pain of that hit. 

“My, my,” this Einar woman said, “I just simply can't believe this haul. You're alive, Cinnamon?” 

“Don't call Cicero that,” the jester replied, “But I could ask you the same, Macey.”

Oddvar tilted his head ever so slightly.  
The bosun's lightly loosened grip signified his perplexity as well. 

What was going on?

Cicero's attention to the Nord woman; however, drew away again. This time towards Jeleen. 

“And you, you Bilge Rat Bitch,” he snipped, “Ha! Ah, how Cicero wishes to pry out that shiny eye and ram Macey's mace up your clam cav—AAAH!FU-UCK YOU, UGLY STICK!”

The Altmer had struck him with cane again. The jester hissed, his legs shaking, but turned his own lashing of tongue to him.

“O-or…Or s-should I call you Spanky—AH, GODS DAMN IT….Cicero's gotta be swooned first—AI! STOP!” 

The Nord woman held up her halting hand to the Altmer again, sparing Cicero from the wrath the golden elf vehemently wanted to descend upon him. 

The elf gave a huff about the halt, but obeyed. 

Einar took her dagger tip and gently pressed it under Cicero's chin, directly his gaze to her once again. 

“So, we're both alive,” she said, “…And you are…quite more lively than I remember….And even aboard my darling ward's ship. Never known you as a seafarer. No stomach for it, I recall. Change of interests after the fall?” 

Jeleen cut in now, chuckling and waving a hand.

“W-wait. Wait,” she said, “….He was in the Brotherhood? Well, well. Guess there was a partial truth to your lies, Nord-boy....Oh, I like this clown even more now.”

“Was?” the jester replied, “Sithis’ sake. Is your brain salt dried from the ocean, Clamcake? Cicero STILL is. My Oddball, my LISTENER, told no lie!” 

“Listener?” Einar arched a brow and looked towards Oddvar.

The Nord man; however, only looked to Cicero as if waiting for an explanation to this turn of event. 

Einar looked to Jeleen, then over to the corpse of Clover. 

She turned her attention to it more precisely, before looking back to Cicero.

“….The dead girl's armor,” she said, “Either the Brotherhood truly still lives….Or you are simply trying to resurrect it. Which is it, Cinnamon?”

“The Brotherhood lives,” he said, “The will of Sithis can not be snuffed out.”

“But dear, Sweet Mother's corpse can be. Spare me poetry,” Einar replied, “Did she not burn in Bravil?”

“No,” the jester replied flatly, “….Her corpse is just as rotted as ever, but she's never been better.”

Einar lifted Cicero from the barrel, holding him off the ground like a kitten held by their nape. 

She smiled at him, but answered her before she even spoke.

“No,” he said bluntly. 

The Nord woman chuckled a bit and took Jeleen's mace from her. 

Oddvar spoke out.

“How ‘bout someone swing at me, for fuck's sake,” he said, having enough of his fool taking the mace. 

Einar replied with a smile. 

“Precisely what I was going to do, dear,” she said and dropped Cicero to the ground. 

The jester had reflexively tried to land on his feet, but the shattered leg collapsed him in agony. 

He still managed; however, to call after Einar as she headed towards Oddvar. 

“No! N-no!” he shouted, “Einar!”

She seemed to ignore his shouts and neared Oddvar as she raised the mace; the Nord man noticing the fissure glowing brighter and steaming. 

“Don't!!” Cicero pleaded.

Oddvar felt the bosun release him and step back, obviously moving out of Einar's swing radius. 

She slung back the dreadful weapon but felt a weight grapple it. 

Jeleen's laugh could be heard as well as a chuckle from the Altmer. 

Einar herself gave a humored roll of her eyes as she pulled the mace to her front and saw the jester hanging onto it. 

Jeleen continued to laugh as she remarked, “Tenacious little hopper!” 

Einar nodded and noted Cicero's determination to cling on, even as his skin began greying—an effect, it seemed, from clutching the mace. 

The Nord woman shook her head a bit and gave a jarring thrust of the weapon, slinging the jester off.

He landed in front of Oddvar, who protectively moved in front of him and glared defiantly at the woman. 

Einar simply rested on her mace and smiled at them, particularly Cicero, who was just raising back up with the same defiant glare as Oddvar. 

The Nord woman was not bothered and merely replied, “Well, it’s time to take me home to Mother.”


End file.
